In Case of Emergency
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Time goes by, but the con remains the same.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K

**Author's Notes**: Owl and I engaged in a discussion of Hardcastle's age in which she held for Charlie Friedman's estimate from _Do Not Go Gentle, _while I clung fervently to the number quoted in _Rolling Thunder_. For those of you who have a pew in the First Church of Early Retirement, please substitute the number sixty-nine, where seventy-three appears in the text ;-)

And many thanks to Owl for beta work as well.

**In Case of Emergency**

By L. M. Lewis

**October, 1983**

The clerk behind the registration counter in the ER waiting area was all questions and no answers.

"The patient's name?"

"Milton Hardcastle. Listen, is he okay? Can I see him?" McCormick craned his neck and tried to see past her into the back, just file cabinets and a copy machine.

"I'm sorry," the clerk replied, in a tone that indicated she was no such thing. "You'll have to wait until the doctor is finished in there. They'll come and tell you when you can go in. Are you family?"

"No." Mark stared at her for a moment. His mind had skittered right over 'parolee', past 'Tonto', and landed on, "I'm an employee." _Sort of._

The clerk barely nodded before she said, "It will help if you can get started on the registration process. We need some information for the forms."

Mark mastered his nervous impatience and said, "Okay."

"Place of residence."

He gave the address of Gulls Way. The phone number was the next request. He gave that, too.

"Date of birth?"

Mark sat there staring again. "Ah," he said after a moment of hard thought that had provided him with not a clue, "I don't know. It's never come up. I've only been with him for a month or two."

"You wouldn't happen to know his Social Security number then, either?" The clerk asked with some weariness.

Mark shook his head. "He's got his wallet on him." He put one hand to his forehead. "Oh, man, unless it fell out over there . . . damn, I hope he doesn't think I—"

He felt a hand on his shoulder and almost jumped.

"Mark?"

He shifted and looked up over his right shoulder, into Lieutenant Harper's face. "Oh, good, do _you_ know his birthday?"

"Ah, yeah, um, it's in February," Harper paused, then he went on, with a little more confidence, "About the middle of February. What the hell happened, Mark?"

McCormick froze, caught between two interrogators. At least he knew the answer to this question.

"Well, ah, you know how he was looking for that guy, Trachowski, the one that skipped bail, that he was hoping could tell him about the Yaborough murder?" He got one nod, which was all the encouragement he needed. "Okay, well, he had a hot lead, and we went over to check it out—a house in Lawndale, and he sent me 'round back, so the guy doesn't book out the back door when he knocks. Only he must not have gotten around to knocking, before Trachowski comes barreling out the front." Mark looked anxiously past the clerk again, into the warren of the registration area. Then he turned back to Harper, still worried. "At least that's what I figured happened. I heard some noise and came around front again—found Hardcase on the ground, must've gotten knocked off the porch, and the other guy is long gone."

"Is he okay?" Frank frowned.

"I _dunno_," Mark insisted. "Nobody'll tell me anything."

"Is there a next-of-kin?" the clerk said with dogged persistence.

Mark turned halfway back to her. "He's got a couple of aunts in Arkansas." Then he looked up at Frank again. "Anybody closer than that?"

Frank was still frowning. He shrugged and shook his head. "Not that I know of."

"Their names?"

"May," Mark provided, "and Zora."

"_Last_ names?" the clerk asked, a little impatiently. And then, getting only another worried stare from Mark, she added, "Never mind. We'll leave that section blank."

Mark gave her a curt nod and turned back again to Frank, who was giving him a quizzical look.

"He's got aunts? You've met 'em?"

"Yeah, only by phone, though."

"They must be pretty old."

"Don't let _them_ hear you say that," Mark said warningly. He glanced back at the clerk, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Frank. "_He's_ a police officer. Will somebody let _him_ know what the hell's going on?"

Frank had a restraining hand back on his shoulder. "Relax, kid. Let 'em do their job. How bad was it? He was awake, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, I mean, he was out for a minute, but he woke up." Mark grudged. "But he wasn't, you know, hitting on all cylinders."

"He was confused?"

"No, not really. More like he wasn't being stubborn."

Frank looked puzzled. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"Trust me," Mark said emphatically, "he wasn't himself." He leaned in toward the clerk again. "Can we go back there yet?"

She pointed, wordlessly, toward the waiting area.

Mark was peeved. Frank had grabbed him by the arm and was firmly encouraging.

"Okay," he said finally, as he started to stand, "but as soon as you know anything . . ."

00000

It hadn't surprised him to find the kid there in the waiting room. The last four times he'd seen Milt, McCormick had been around, practically the man's shadow, except that he was way too talkative to qualify as one.

At first, Frank figured it for a short leash, especially after Hardcastle's unhappy experience with his last reformation project. But then he'd stopped by to pick up a file, one evening late last week, and McCormick had answered the door.

It was pretty obvious that he'd come from the den, and that the two of them had been watching a movie, something with John Wayne in it, and a bowl of popcorn and a couple of beers were involved. That didn't look like any kind of mandatory rehabilitation activity that Harper had ever run across before, more like a couple of guys just hanging out after hours.

He'd puzzled that one over for a while. He knew the kid wasn't exactly a hardened criminal—he'd done his own background check when Milt had announced he'd found candidate number two for his 'project'—but, still, McCormick wasn't choir material, either, and even a reasonably _nice_ guy would be expected to harbor some feelings of resentment toward the judge who'd put him in prison.

And he'd distinctly heard Milt say that the thing would be kept on a strictly business footing. There'd be rules, and chores, and, after hearing the whole proposition as outlined, Frank had given McCormick two weeks, at the outside, before he snapped.

And that had been a month and a half ago.

Instead the man was sitting in an emergency room waiting area. And he was fidgeting.

Frank was half-tempted to put the question to him, ask him outright about it. He might've thought maybe it was all a put-on, some elaborate con on the part of a guy who looked like he could be pretty good at them, but Lieutenant Carlton had hauled him aside a couple of weeks back, and told him about Milt's little after-hours visit to the police impound yard.

_"And then two minutes after Hardcastle comes into the office, baring his soul about his transgressions, in walks this kid, all hyped up, announcing that he's the responsible party. It was like something from a Marx Brothers' movie."_

Only it wasn't. It'd been damn dangerous, and it might've landed the kid, at least, back in San Quentin as fast as you could say 'parole revoked'.

But, if it wasn't a con, then what the hell was it? And where the _hell_ had it come from?

Another fidget. "Maybe you could go ask 'em again?" Mark looked toward the still closed door, then turned back abruptly. "They aren't gonna listen to me."

"It's only been ten minutes," Frank said reasonably.

Before the younger man could launch another argument, the closed door opened, and a woman in blue scrubs emerged. She had obviously gotten her cue from the clerk, and she gestured in their direction with a come-along and a 'You can see him now.'

Mark was on his feet, moving, with Frank left in his wake. Once inside, they didn't really need any additional steering. It was evident, from a string of low-grade griping, which cubicle was Hardcastle's.

In the space of twenty feet, the younger man had transformed his expression from worry to annoyance and now, at the bedside, he had his arms crossed and was wearing a look of stern disapproval.

"So, next time maybe you'll listen to me? It would've made a lot more sense to wait until he came out."

"What, and give him time to figure out we were there? And I heard you trip over that trashcan lid; so did he. That's why he came barreling out the _front_ door, ya know—" The judge reached up and fingered his swollen nose gingerly.

"Wait a minute," McCormick bristled, "_I'm_ clumsy? _I _didn't wind up flat on my back in the bushes." He leaned forward, cocking his head a little for a closer inspection. "How many stitches?"

"Dunno."

"Hold still . . . five. When's your birthday?"

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes a little. "February twenty-fifth. Why?" He shifted his gaze to Frank, who merely shrugged.

"Just curious," Mark said cryptically. "Are they going to make you stay?"

"Nah." Hardcastle darted a glance toward the hallway. "They're just writing up the paperwork. You know, I got another idea where Trachowski might be hiding out—"

"Not today," Mark shook his head. "Not a chance. Home," he added firmly.

Frank had listened to the whole exchange with bemusement. If it was some sort of con, it was the most Byzantine and inscrutable one he'd ever encountered. Either that or Mark just had a poor grasp of the fundamentals.

But if it wasn't a con, he'd be damned if he knew exactly what it _was_.

**February, 1985**

He pushed through the waiting room crowd toward the registration desk. He saw Mark there, hunched over something, the mundane in the midst of tragedy. Frank button-holed a detective he recognized, Riley from homicide.

"Any word?"

Riley gave a quick shake of his head. "Nothing yet, 'cept they said he was still alive when he got here."

Frank gave him a quick nod of thanks and edged closer to where Mark was sitting. He caught the tail-end of the question.

"—emergency contact?"

"Me." Mark's reply was hesitant, and almost inaudible in the hubbub of the waiting room, but then he gave his name and number a little louder. The clerk took it down.

"Relationship?" she asked.

"Friend." No hesitation that time.

Frank reached out and touched his shoulder. He saw the man jerk a little, then look back at him and ask, "Anything?"

"No," Harper tried not to frown. "Alive when he got here. That's all I've heard so far."

Mark nodded once, and swiped at his nose with his sleeve. "Gotta let 'em do their job . . . He was awake right after. He talked to me."

"That's good," Frank squeezed the shoulder where his hand rested. "That's a good sign." Then, to the clerk, "Do you need anything else from him?"

She shook her head. "I've got it all. You can have a seat in the waiting room."

Frank looked over his shoulder. The prospect of finding a seat there looked dim. Mark was shoving cards back into Milt's wallet clumsily.

"Anywhere else?" Frank asked the clerk quietly.

She looked up from what she was doing and cast a glance at the chaos.

"Ah . . . maybe the second floor. I believe they said he'd be going directly to surgery. There's a small waiting area up there, much quieter."

"Come on, Mark." Frank shifted his hand to under the younger man's elbow. He looked up, distractedly, then suddenly seemed to realize that Frank had been there for a while.

"I couldn't give her May and Zora as emergency contacts," he said apologetically.

"I know."

"I'll have to call them, talk to them." Mark was looking increasingly stricken. "Not yet, though. Oh . . . what am I going to tell them?" He was on his feet now, allowing Frank to steer him through the crowd.

"You'll tell them you were there, and that he talked to you," Frank reassured him. "And you'll know what to say . . . but you don't have to do it yet."

They'd made it to the edge of the crowd, near the elevators. Sandy Knight was there, talking to another cop. Frank didn't catch all the words but the tone was angry and the subject was Randall. He'd seen them coming and turned toward them as they approached.

"Anything?"

"Alive when he got here," Frank said mechanically, as he pushed the 'up' button.

"He's still in the ER?" Sandy asked.

"Yeah, from there to surgery."

Sandy looked at the elevator, then back at Frank.

Harper sighed and said. "Second floor waiting area. Near surgery. Listen," he turned to Mark, "you stay there; I've got to get back over to the department. We haven't found Randall yet but we've got a lot of leads to run down." He looked at Knight dubiously and then added, "You _both_ stay there." He knew Mark had no great fondness for Sandy, but he supposed bad company was better than no company at all.

The doors opened, and the two men got on. "Listen, he added hastily, entirely focused on Mark, "he's tough, you know that. He'll fight. He wants to live."

Mark managed a nod of acknowledgement before the doors closed between them, leaving Frank alone in the crowded waiting area.

Frank let out a long, slow breath_. And you ought to have told him that he is the main reason for that._

**June, 1990**

"Emergency contact?" the clerk asked politely.

Mark slipped the other sheets back in the folder and pulled out one last form.

"Me, medical power of attorney."

The clerk glanced up from her typing and reached for it. "We'll need to make a copy of this."

"Keep that one. I've got the original." He leaned over and slipped the folder back into the briefcase that sat on the floor next to his chair.

"All right. You can have a seat over there" She gestured toward a row of utilitarian chairs along the wall. "They'll let you know when you can—"

"Uh-uh," Mark shook his head firmly with a quick gesture to the paper the clerk still held. "They'll want me in there. He gets a little cranky in strange places."

The clerk frowned and then nodded. "I'll tell his nurse; she'll be out in a sec."

Mark smiled as she departed.

"Now, was that nice?" He startled for a moment and half-turned to see Frank just behind him.

"Well," the younger man shrugged, "he _does._ He gets cranky in a lot of places. And I'm not gonna sit out here when I could be sitting in there. And how'd you find out we were here so fast?"

"I was at the courthouse myself. That arson trial. When I got out, I heard there'd been some kind of accident, and he'd gone off in an ambulance, but nobody could give me a straight story. What the hell happened, Mark?"

Mark allowed himself one ceiling-ward glance of the eyes. "He was supposed to meet me for lunch, right? And he's walking down the hall with his nose buried in a brief, and he trips right over one of those yellow things, the ones that tell you it's dangerous because the floor's still wet." He shook his head. "He went flying. Dunno why they were mopping in the middle of the day."

"He's okay?"

"Yeah, more or less. Banged his nose, hurt his wrist. And they wanted him to wear one of those neck braces for the trip here, which, of course, he had a fit about—I wasn't fibbing about the cranky part." Mark frowned.

The door to the treatment area was opening, and a harried-looking woman emerged, holding a clipboard. She glanced down at it and then up again, dividing her glance between the two men. "Mr. McCormick?"

Mark gave her a sharp nod and a quick, thin smile.

"Oh, _do_ come in," she said eagerly.

Mark hooked a thumb in Frank's direction. "Police—needs to make an accident report."

The woman nodded in return. If she saw any incongruity in a plain-clothes officer being relegated to that duty, she made no comment. There was an ongoing argument clearly audible from the other side of the doorway.

"I think I could _tell_ if it was broken. It's just a little stiff, that's all."

Mark was past her and inside already.

"Lieutenant Harper is here," he announced officiously to the man on the cart in the cubicle, "to arrest you for damage to county property. They're going to have to replace the sign."

"What the hell were they doing mopping in the middle of the day, anyhow?" Hardcastle groused.

"They were cleaning up the blood from the last idiot who tripped over the sign," Mark said solemnly. "It's a vicious cycle."

00000

Frank stifled a laugh. Mark might get away with it, but he wasn't going to try. And then he heard a change in the younger man's tone, clear but subtle.

"Now let 'em do whatever it is they wanna do so they can get you patched up and we can get out of here, okay?" He was calm, and practical, and absolutely not kidding around.

Milt was still frowning, but no longer griping. He let out a sigh of resignation and said, "All right, but I still don't think it's broken."

"Okay," Mark replied, "then you'll get to say 'I told you so', right? And anyway, it's your right hand. And if it _is _broke, then I'll get stuck with all the paperwork for a while; so it looks like a win-win situation, huh?"

Milt was looking not completely mollified, but the nurse saw her opening and was already unlocking the brakes on the cart to whisk him away to the x-ray department. She flashed a quick smile of what might have been gratitude at McCormick as she departed.

And as soon as they were gone, Frank saw the look of mild concern descend back on the younger man's features.

"He looks pretty okay," Frank said quietly.

"Oh," Mark said absently, "yeah. It was damn careless, that's all. He's not a kid. He could break something." He was passing his eyes lightly over his surroundings, as if he was seeing something else. There was a pause before he added, "But _this_ place," a brief, almost invisible shudder, "St. Mary's, it gives me the creeps. Just does."

Frank nodded at that one, then groped about for a change of subject. "Medical power of attorney?"

"Oh . . . yeah. It's sensible." Mark looked pensive. "There really isn't anybody else. Can't bother May and Zora. And Gerald . . . hah." He shook his head sadly. Then, after another pause., "You never know . . . it's sensible."

"Easier than adoption papers," Frank said, only half-humorously.

Mark gave a quick laugh, before he said, "God, Frank, don't let _him_ hear you say that." Then the pensive look was back, and settled quickly into something even more concerned. "It's just knowing, eventually . . . You know, he turned seventy-three in February."

Frank nodded. "But don't tell him," he said, perfectly flat.

Mark quirked a smile that stayed till the cart and its grumpy burden returned.

"Told'ja," the judge announced with satisfaction, "just sprained."

"So, all you'll need is an ace wrap and a seeing eye dog, huh? And there goes our million-dollar suit against the County of Los Angeles." Mark shook his head sadly. "And I was all ready to order new drapes for the Law Center."

"It'll just have to wait till next year," the judge consoled cheerfully. "But you _will_ get stuck with all the paperwork."

"I'll need a stenographer," Mark said after a brief moment's thought. "Terry, she's good; we could get her. She's _very_ good."

"Which one is she?"

"Blond." Mark held his hand, palm down, about five feet, nine inches above the floor.

"And you almost a married man," Hardcastle shook his head in amused disbelief.

"I'll have you know I was talking about her error rate," Mark replied with a prim look that held for about a half a second, and then the grin was back, and there was not one iota of visible worry.

Frank smiled. As cons went, it was a thing of genuine beauty.


End file.
